Phenomena of the Weather
by wild wolf free17
Summary: Dean’s never minded a little rain.
1. Storm

**Title: **Storm

**Disclaimer**: I own neither the weather nor the Winchesters.

**Warnings**: pre-pilot

**Pairings**: nary a one(unless you count the weather and Dean)

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 185

**Point of view**: third

* * *

They spent a month in south Louisiana once. It rained for days, on and off, lightly and heavily, flooding the streets. Sam spent the time grumbling in his bed, swaddled in sheets; he hated the pitter-patter on the roof, the wind whooshing through the trees. It made it hard to concentrate on his schoolwork, that constant noise. Dad cleaned guns and sharpened knives, researched, taught himself incantations and rituals. 

And Dean slowly shifted from standing at the window to standing in the open door to standing in the rain. He didn't mind the cold; middle of April shouldn't still be in the fifties, but a front was passing through, driving with it the freezing rain. He didn't mind the wind swirling around him, messing with his hair, lashing him with the water. He didn't mind that his clothes were soaked through or that he was shivering.


	2. Tempest

**Title**: Tempest

**Fandom**: "Supernatural"

**Disclaimer**: Dean and Sam aren't mine

**Warnings**: sometime during season one

**Pairings**: none, unless you count Dean and the weather

**Rating**: PG

**Wordcount**: 900

* * *

They're stuck in the motel room, waiting for some stupid storm to either blow itself out or blow through. The power failed a good hour before and Sam hadn't had time to recharge his laptop's battery. Dean's content to clean the guns, inventory their clothes, and sharpen knives by candlelight, but within twenty minutes, Sam's climbing the walls. 

And it _keeps on storming_.

Damn, Sam _hates_ rain.

"Dude, calm _down_," Dean finally snaps. "You're drivin' me crazy."

"I'm _bored_." Sam knows he's whining, but he needs something to do.

"So read a book," Dean suggests, finally done with the clothes.

"I'll strain my eyes."

Dean scoffs and Sam's sure he's rolling his eyes.

A clap of thunder and Sam jumps, gasping; Dean just breathes, "_Awesome_."

Sam has never understood his brother's weather fetish. Dean has actually stood in the middle of a thunderstorm, face towards the sky, and _laughed_. If that's not certifiably insane, Sam doesn't know what is.

"Sammy, if you won't do anything to relieve your boredom, shut up. Take a nap or somethin'."

Sam doesn't pout. Really, he doesn't. He just settles against the headboard, crosses his arms, and grumbles. And that is _not_ pouting.

Dean mutters and tosses a shirt at his head. Sam snipes, "Hope that was clean."

-

Another hour. Endless, dragging, and Sam ran out of fun when he realized he couldn't surf the web—oh, about _two minutes_ after the power failed.

"Hey, I think it's lighting up, Sam," Dean announces, and he's out the door before Sam realizes that's his intention.

"Dean!" he yells. He has _never_ understood his brother and he never, _ever_ will. He bounces off the bed and stalks to the door, glares out into the storm and his crazy brother, who—the hell? Dean is just _standing_ in the middle of the _lashing rain_, face raised to the sky, and is he… he is. He's _laughing_.

Sam hurts just watching, imagining the stinging on his face. "Dean!" he hollers again, feeling like the older brother for once, trying to get an errant sibling to heel. "Get your ass back in here before you're struck by lightning, you crazy fool!"

Dean laughs again. "C'mon, Sammy! It's fun."

The rain falls harder. Sam can't even see the pavement through the gloom.

"Dean, your boots'll be ruined!" Sam tries, stepping further back into the room. "And your shirt!"

Dean _giggles_. Sam can barely hear it over the storm, but his older brother, the hardened hunter, the most dangerous man he's ever _known_—fucking _giggles_ like a twelve-year-old schoolgirl with a crush.

Sam stares. A curtain of water separates them, but he stares at where he thinks his brother is, scoffs in disbelief, and slams the door. Who cares if Dean catches his death? Not Sam, that's for _damn_ sure. He stretches out on his bed and buries himself beneath the covers.

He mutters about idiots who think they're immune to colds, about crazy fools—he's _never_ understood Dean's fascination with weather. Dean would probably run out to visit with a _tornado_, if he was ever in the same place as one.

Sam hates the sound of raindrops on the roof, against the window. It keeps his mind focused, engaged on the noise, so he can't think about the case they were attempting before the sky opened its bladder and pissed on them.

If possible, it starts raining even _harder_. Sam considers screaming.

-

He wakes when Dean trumps back in, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it on Sam.

"_Dean_," he growls, sitting up. He's tangled in the blankets, caught. It takes a minute to unravel himself and he throws Dean's jacket back at him once he's free.

Dean laughs, spreads his jacket on the dresser, and continues stripping his clothes. "Storm's almost done, Sammy," he says, stepping into the darkened bathroom and grabbing a towel. He briskly dries himself off and jumps on his bed. "I figure the power'll be back on soon."

In the semidarkness of the room, Sam looks over at Dean, stares at him. "What do you like so much about storms?" Sam asks.

Dean's silent for a minute, before saying, "I dunno. The power, beauty—grace, maybe. They're kinda like big cats, if you think about it." He's quick to assure, "Not that I _have_ thought about it. Not at all. But—dangerous, for all their beauty, you know?"

Sam thinks for a moment, picturing in his mind Dean laughing in the middle of a storm, thunder overhead and lightning in the distance. "Yeah," he says softly. "I get it."

A few more minutes pass and the power blinks on. Sam checks his watch: five till five. "Let's find some food then watch some TV," he suggests.

Dean looks at him like he's possessed. "You don't wanna work on the case?"

"It's not goin' anywhere. Besides, how long's it been since we took a break?"

"How 'bout Chinese?" Dean asks, pulling on a dry shirt as Sam rolls out of bed. "And maybe the movie rental place'll be open."

"Whatever you want, Dean," Sam tells him and ties his shoes.

No, he doesn't understand his brother fully, but he knows more than enough. And he's glad—he's glad that Dean can still be a wonder-filled kid about some things. He waits for Dean by the door and thinks that maybe he's finally catching up.


	3. downpour

**Title**: downpour 

**Disclaimer**: the brothers aren't mine; just for fun. 

**Warnings**: spoilers for everything 

**Pairings**: none beyond Dean and the weather 

**Rating**: PG 

**Wordcount**: 460 

**Point** **of** **view**: third

* * *

It's been storming for three days straight. The roads are washed out, trees are down everywhere, the Impala's windshield is cracked, and he's _done_ with this. Completely fucking _done_ with it. 

Dean just stares out the window, face serene, not seeming to care that the gate of Hell opened, that the demon—the DEMON, the bastard they've hunted their whole lives—is _dead_, or—the best fucking part—he's got a year to live. 

Dean just stares at the storm. And Sam's more pissed than he's ever been, because _how_ could Dean have _done_ it? How _dare_ he? It's like he thinks he doesn't _matter_! 

And, looking at Dean's back, at the set of his shoulders, Sam realizes with a deep ache that it's the truth. Dean honestly believes that he _doesn't_ matter, not as much as Sam. 

"Dude." Dean cuts into his reflections, glancing at him. "I'm goin' out for a minute." 

"You're doin' _what_?" Sam can't have heard him right. This isn't the usual little storm, not like the dozen others Dean's stood in the middle of—it's one step away from being a damned _hurricane_! 

Dean's smile is gentle. "It'll be fine, Sammy," he promises, and is out the door. 

Sam gapes, then lunges to his feet and strides across the room in two steps. He's pissed—at the demon, at Jake, at the world, at himself, at _Dean_—and he bellows as he opens the door, "Dean, get your ass back in here!" 

He'd half-hoped that Dean'd react to the drill sergeant tone of their father, but Dean ignores him, standing in the howling rain, face toward the dark-gray, rolling sky. Sam hears his laughter over the wind and wonders—_again_—how Dean can be so reckless about the weather. He'd flip out if Sam acted so uncaring about a natural force beyond their power or comprehension, but Dean? Doesn't care about himself. Never has.  
And that adds to Sam's fury. Dean's gone and sold himself, uncaring that he'll spend eternity—forfucking_ever_—in _Hell_. No way out. Dean's done stupid shit before, to keep Sam safe, but this? He's given away his _soul_. The thing that makes him _Dean_. 

Sam wants to slap him, punch him, show him just how stupid a move that is. But Dean won't understand. He thinks Sam's worth more, always has. His one job is keeping Sam safe, and damn the world if it gets in the way. 

Or himself. 

There's very little Sam can't forgive Dad for, when it all comes down to it. What he's done to Dean is at the top of the list. 

Sam sighs, watching Dean. The rain falls harder, wind shrieking, and Dean laughs. Sam sighs again and steps forward, joining his brother in the maelstrom. 


End file.
